Allegra Harvard
Regarding the fear of the lion and the way I ate and orange
PREFACE:Now I am dead and a tiger. I feel like having revenge and killing for money.
Suddenly, an orange felt violent.
Fingering its cells felt violent and pleasurable.
Tearing and eating it felt violent and like the act of mutilation. A guilty expression followed by cringing because the orange looked like flesh, and I was eating it, and it was delicious and I simply was not going to stop mutilating the orange that looked like flesh. I thought about how some people compare fruit to genitals, and I tell them that is disgusting and to keep it to themselves. Obviously I am repressed. I was reminded I am an animal and I should be hunting for my food. Forlorned on my primal makeup — life was romantic, and in that orange, it became ugly and disgusting again. I felt rage and hate and vicious urges toward my orange. And suddenly, like some awful joke, I sort of began to feel funny about the whole thing. I felt like I was eating my mother or father, or unborn child. Virility and hate and weird and vicious and murderous ideas towards the orange which quite drastically glimmered by its reprise once more of humor and satyrical thoughts and just when I was about to see the orange quite alright a man came out from the bushes and the brutally raped me and then murdered me like a lion in the wild.
POST SCRIPT: Ultimately, the fear of the lion is the result of the fear of the lion and in my death I find myself pregnant with a basketball that will be born in this next life to rape and murder his father that is the lion. And such it goes: in the end I am redeemed and a winner. The orange will always rot and I am immortal, and this is hilarious, absurd, and wrong. A death drive or pile drive is something unlike and also like a French man teaching you how to waltz. It is strong, suggestive, and disappointing. And now, most certainly now I must end the writing for there is no point besides illuminating the orange and murder and death and rebirth and redemption, followed by death yet again and your disappointment. Such is life, c’est la vie.